


the silence of a songbird is louder than the howl of a wolf

by AnonymousHime



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Good Friend Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Torture, Jaskier Uses ASL, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Mute Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-episode s01e06, Torture, Whump, Yennefer sucks at first but she gets better I promise, the non-con is not graphic but heavily implied
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-06-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 21:15:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23433775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousHime/pseuds/AnonymousHime
Summary: “His hope died in that room then, and he wanted nothing more than to sink deeper into the cold stone until nothing was left of him except for legend and lyrics, his soul hummed out through the throats of those who couldn’t get the tune of his legacy out of their heads but would remain forever unaware of the fate that befell its creator.“Just when Jaskier thought he had nothing left to lose, an unexpected savior forces him on a road of recovery that he never prepared to walk.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 43
Kudos: 355





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> PLEASE READ:  
> Hey friends! A few warnings before we start. This is a whumpfic featuring graphic depictions of torture and aftermath of torture, non-graphic but implied sexual assault, and a lot of tough and raw emotions and feelings. If any of this makes you uncomfortable or could be triggering, PLEASE take care of yourself and reconsider reading. Thank you guys!

“If life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands.”

The words spoken on the mountaintop resounded in his head more often than they didn’t, and as much as they stung they still didn’t burn deeper than the fresh scars lacing his body. So he clung to the memory of citrine eyes piercing into his own, as words sharper than the Witcher’s sword sliced their final attack upon him. The memory was all he had left of Geralt, and he wasn’t going to let it fade out until his own life did.

He didn’t know how long it’d been into his capture when he learned of the mighty Witcher’s fate, but if he were to guess by the change from uncomfortable heat to unbearable chill in his cell, it’d been several seasons. The news was whispered sharply between guards, just loud enough for the prisoner to hear the word “Witcher” but just quiet enough that he had to gingerly creep closer to the cell door to hear the rest.

“I can’t believe a Witcher was taken out that easily... especially that one.”

“He was weak, spending day in and day out searching for his lowlife bard. I’m not that surprised a strong enough beast could catch him off guard in that state.” The smirk in his voice was obvious. He hated it.

“Even so, it’s disappointing. I was hoping we could take credit for his demise. What are we doing with his plaything now?”

“Probably still keeping it. We’re having too much fun to just throw it out.”

They’d taken a lot of things from the ex-bard. They started with his pride, his arms and legs bound to cold stone as his own beloved lute was smashed over his body, adding to the painting of purples and blues upon his pale skin. They jeered at him as they stripped him of his clothing and placed a collar of metal and chain around his neck, and they barked out insults and slurs. The more that their harsh words were whispered into his ears like sweet nothings, the more he started to believe them.

Next, they took his control, for when the guards got bored of traditional torture and beatings, he spent nights filled with blood and skin caked under his fingernails in a desperate attempt to have some control over the intruding bodies. He stood no chance, but it still felt good to leave his stinging mark on their backs and their arms and their thighs, to leave proof that he was here, that he had tried, that he didn’t want it.

They took his voice, when they realized a songbird as free as himself could never truly be kept in a cage. When the cruel magic began tearing at his throat, he screamed until nothing came out, leaving his final song of sorrow upon this world until he had nothing left but his shaking tears and silent prayers to a god he never believed in.

And now... they took his Witcher. His hope died in that room then, and he wanted nothing more than to sink deeper into the cold stone until nothing was left of him except for legend and lyrics, his soul hummed out through the throats of those who couldn’t get the tune of his legacy out of their heads but would remain forever unaware of the fate that befell its creator.

Yet as much as he longed for death to embrace him in her gentle arms, she never came for him.

Even death had abandoned him here.

It was kind of poetic, honestly. It would make a great song, but even if he’d had his voice, the music in his head silenced itself long ago. He supposed that part of him was dead, too. His body was now a prison, his lifeline that will not allow him to rest even though every other part of him has already passed on. So, he waits. Every day, when that cell door creaks open, he’s just a little bit weaker. He’s just a little bit closer... to the end, to peace, to wherever the hell it’ll take him as long as it’s away from here. When the cell door opened again today, he wished just like every other day, for the final blow to be delivered at long last, to pass out and never wake up again.

Heavy footsteps entered the room, and Jaskier’s body instinctively tensed, bracing himself for the blows. Yet, the attack never came. The guard stood above him in silence for what felt like hours, and the longer it dragged on, the more that Jaskier’s anxiety welled in his stomach. What were they going to do to him now? They’d done it all, hadn’t they? What more could they take from him, what more could they _do_?

“Jaskier,” the rough voice above him spoke, at long last, and the ex-bard’s anxiety washed away only to be replaced by a numb confusion. They didn’t call him by his name, here. He’d never been called by his name, it was yet another thing they stole from him, reducing him to just “him” or “it” or “the bard.” He knew if he was “the bard,” it would be a bad day, their voices laced with laughter as they reminded him of what he could no longer be. Yet... this voice above him held no ridicule, no cruelty. It almost sounded... sad?

A knee came down beside Jaskier’s face, black leather pants scuffed with dirt and blood. It was familiar, yet he couldn’t bring himself to look up at the face above him. He was scared to. Why?

“Jaskier...” the voice rang out again, softer this time, all the more familiar. All the more pained.

Then suddenly, there was a hand on his cheek, and he jerked away and squeezed his eyes shut but the hand did not retract. He should’ve known. He’d let his guard down. He should’ve known.

Still, no pain came, instead the hand slowly guided his head to face upwards. Once the movement stopped, Jaskier steeled himself, and opened his eyes.

Piercing yellow eyes. White hair, still shining through layers of blood and dirt. An unmistakable pendant hanging from a chest that’s still wearing that familiar, black linen shirt.

It was impossible. Even so, his Witcher—his _dead_ Witcher—stood before him now, very much... not dead, at least from what Jaskier could tell. He was breathing, his skin was warm, and his eyes were full of life. Geralt was speaking, he could tell that much from the movement of his lips and murmurs echoing off the walls, but for some reason it sounded like he was underwater. How strange, Jaskier mused as he drank in the sight before him. Maybe he’d gone delusional, this was all just some elaborate mirage. Still, as strong arms held his shaking form, an ever-familiar scent filling his nose as Geralt rubbed circles into his back, he figured this was a pretty decent illusion to have. He must be dying, and his Witcher had come to retrieve him, so they could be together once more. Whatever afterlife Witchers go to, the bard decided long ago that he would gladly follow him there. So, he closed his eyes, darkness washing over him, his body surrendering to the peace.

...and then he woke up.

He didn’t expect to wake up. He _really_ didn’t expect to wake up on a horse, and he _especially_ didn’t expect to wake up on Roach whilst Geralt, who was very much not dead, nestled him to his chest. He reveled in the steady heartbeat drumming from the Witcher’s chest and into his ear.

He was alive. They both were.

It wasn’t long before Jaskier’s limp figure was hauled off of Roach, stirred awake but glassy gray eyes barely recognizing anything before him. Geralt bundled the bard tightly in his arms, running forwards, his boots splashing in the mud. It was raining, but if either man noticed neither made any indication. Geralt has more important matters to worry about and Jaskier was... not really here.

Geralt slid to a stop at his destination, a small cottage tucked safely away in the woods. The Witcher began banging on the elaborate wooden door, completely disregarding his inhuman strength and leaving a few good dents in its elegant decorations. A few agonizing moments later, the door was opened with a creak. The sorceress took in the Witcher, fury flashing through her purple eyes and magic all but vibrating off of her form, before her gaze found its way to the figure cradled in Geralt’s shaking arms.

“Yen,” Geralt started, “he needs—“

“Get him inside.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for reading chapter one of my first Witcher fanfic! This one is a bit out of my comfort zone for making public, but I’m trying to be more comfortable with sharing my darker works. Please keep in mind that my knowledge of the series is rooted entirely in the TV show so if there are any inaccuracies, feel free to drop me a comment and I will revise. Chapter two will be up soon!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU all so much for the kudos and kind comments. It’s really cheered me up. Due to COVID, most of my family has either been laid off or taken a serious pay cut, so we’re going to be struggling for awhile. Because of that, I may not be able to update weekly, but I’m definitely going to try. Your support keeps me going! Thank you again!

“I’m sorry.”

The Witcher, the White Wolf, the Butcher of Blaviken... apologized.

If it had been any other time, in any other place, Yennefer could’ve laughed. Whether from disbelief or genuine humor, she wasn’t sure... for if there were any two words she would’ve put coin on Geralt never saying, it would be “I’m sorry.” Yet, after all this time, here they stand... with the Witcher slumped in a chair, his eyes rimmed red and hair stained crimson, hands shaking, his raw apology choked out barely above a whisper.

It was then when she realized he hadn’t been the Witcher, the White Wolf, in a long time... he appeared before her then, as Geralt. Geralt, a very vulnerable and very broken man.

Yennefer was nothing if not sharp. Wisdom beyond her years, wit in every breath. Thousands of books studied, knowledge many could never dream of possessing. Yennefer was nothing if not sharp, so why could she not comprehend the broken man standing before her now?

“It’s been five years, Geralt.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“You never looked for me.”

Geralt, who had been avoiding her gaze, lifted his eyes to meet hers. Something dangerous flashed within them. The Witcher was still in there somewhere, then.

“You broke things off. I respected your boundaries.” The man all but growled. It was quiet, raw, but the Witcher’s intensity held true. “You’re a powerful sorceress, not a helpless dame. You could’ve found me at any time.”

Yennefer scoffed, arms crossed. Her eyes darted to the side, her mouth held open in a slight smirk before it dropped again, returning her intense gaze to the man before her.

“Did you want me to?” The sorceress took a step towards Geralt, eye contact never breaking. “Can you look me in the eyes and tell me, that if I showed up at an inn in which you stayed, you wouldn’t tell me to get lost? That if we crossed paths on your journey, you wouldn’t tell me to mind my own business? That if I stood on that mountaintop with you once more, you wouldn’t tell me you’re better off alone?”

The silence between the two was broken only by the crackling of the fireplace and the occasional shift of the bard on the bed beside them. Geralt did not speak. His silence was answer enough.

Yennefer nodded, solemnly, turning away from the man to glance at the fragile figure laying injured in her spare bed.

“It’s... always been him, hasn’t it?” 

It was more of a statement than a question. The silence dragged on, Geralt opening and closing his mouth a few times before settling on one simple response.

“Hm.”

Yennefer nodded again, seeming to accept his painfully Geralt-like answer. Her fingers brushed against the unconscious bard’s arm, and in that moment, Geralt felt something change in the sorceress. Rage and the threat of tears filled her eyes and she kept one fist clenched tightly shut at her side whilst the other still lingered on Jaskier’s arm.

“It’s been five years,” she repeated, fingers now tracing the bandages along Jaskier’s neck.

It only took a moment for the white-haired man to pick up on the woman’s implications. His brow furrowed. He knew she was right.

“I read him, to better understand the extent of his injuries.” Yennefer informed him, venom lacing her voice. “He was alone, distraught and exhausted on the bottom of that bloody mountain when he all but strolled into a Nilfgaard camp. Where were you, Geralt?”

Geralt bit his cheek. He knew she was right.

“When did you discover he was missing, Geralt? When did you start looking for him? A year ago, less than?”

He knew she was right. 

“Where were you when he screamed and begged for you to come as they broke his bones with a blacksmith’s hammer?” Yennefer removed her hand from Jaskier’s form, now moving towards Geralt, never breaking her fierce eye contact. “Where were you when his voice was stolen and he mouthed your name from the corner of his cell, shivering and wet after they held his head underwater until he couldn’t breathe, over and over for hours on end?”

_He knew she was right._

But that didn’t make her words sting any less.

“They hurt him every day. For _five years_ , Geralt. If it’s always been him...” the sorceress’ voice cracked, “then why weren’t you _looking for him?!_ ”

“I was _trying_ to protect him!” Geralt ran his hands over his face, before they tightened into fists over his forehead, clenching at the roots of his dirtied hair.

“Protect him from _what?!_ ” Yennefer’s voice was shrill, storming towards Geralt, magic vibrating at her fingertips.

“ _From me!_ ” Geralt growled and abruptly stood, his face mere inches away from Yennefer, hand brushing against his sword as his dangerous aura radiated off of him.

The form on the bed whimpered, flinching away from the loud noise and smell of danger. Both the Witcher and the sorceress turned to face him, taking in his furrowed brows and trembling limbs. Geralt’s exhausted body slumped back down into the chair.

“Please,” he whispered. “Let’s not fight. Fighting is what got us here in the first place.”

Yennefer settled her hips against the end of the bed, her own body starting to become weary from the strain. She nodded, arms crossed.

“You look terrible,” the sorceress whispered, wary now of not frightening the unconscious man. “And you’re going to stain my furniture. Go, take a bath. He shouldn’t wake before you return.”

Geralt nodded, quietly muttering his thanks.

—-

“Where were you?”

The voice that rang through the darkness was neither fierce nor feminine, completely unlike the one he’d heard chastising him just moments before. The Witcher turned around to see the source of the voice and found the Jaskier that he’d left on that mountain five years ago. His face had not yet aged and his body had not yet been injured, but his gray eyes were still haunted and his cheeks were still tear-stained.

“Where were you?” The bard asked again, his delicate voice weaker now, his hands beginning to shake.

Geralt stepped forward, lifting his hand to wipe the younger man’s tears, but his body froze midway, leaving his arm suspended at an awkward angle. He couldn’t move.

“Where were y—?” Jaskier’s third attempt at the question got cut short, replaced instead with a wretched gagging noise as he choked on blood pooling in his mouth.

The Witcher tried to call out to the bard, but no noise escaped him. He couldn’t speak.

He stared, paralyzed as bruises and cuts began to litter Jaskier’s body, their source invisible, and the man fell to the Witcher’s feet. An array of colors blossomed over the bard’s perfect skin, hues of blues and purples and healing yellows, the sharp contrast of crimson rapidly running down his forehead and chest and arms and thighs—

Jaskier grabbed at the Witcher’s pant leg, gray eyes wild, his mouth moving but no words filling it.

A different voice spoke, now. The Witcher’s own, resonating off of the dark walls, an inescapable echo. 

_Where were you?_

“Let’s not fight. Fighting is what got us here in the first place.”

_No! You’re what got us here in the first place!_

_Where were you?_

“Protect him from what?!”

_Heartless bastard, emotionless monster, me, me, I’ll hurt him I’ll hurt him I’ll—_

**Where**

**were**

**you?**

Geralt awoke with a strangled gasp, shivering as his body remained submerged in the bath water that had long since chilled. He took in his surroundings and released a sigh, lifting himself out of the freezing tub and suddenly grateful for the soft, warm towels that he would normally find unnecessarily luxurious but Yennefer considered a basic necessity.

He returned to the cottage’s guest bedroom, a towel still wrapped around his shoulders to protect his dry clothes from his damp, but now pristine hair.

The sorceress, who was now dozing in a chair by Jaskier’s bedside, was right about the bard not yet waking. If anything, he looked deeper asleep in the peace of the night, his eyebrows no longer knit together and his breath no longer labored. Geralt crept towards the bed, careful not to wake Yennefer, and kneeled beside the unconscious man. He looked at Jaskier, _truly_ looked at him for the first time since his rescue... his mousy brown hair was long and matted, his face sunken and pale. He had aged slightly, his unusually gaunt features making the crow’s feet near his resting eyes more noticeable. He’d had facial hair when he rescued him—something he’d never seen before on the man—but Yennefer used a spell to shave it off, claiming she needed to access wounds on his face. Geralt wondered if she did it just to have a sense of normalcy. Bandages were wrapped around most of the bard’s frail body, but just enough was left uncovered from his chest for his visible ribcage to be all the more noticeable, pale skin clinging to bone with nothing in between. Geralt held back bile as he was hit by the realization that he hadn’t even scratched the surface of what happened to his long-lost ( _never searched for,_ he reminded himself bitterly) travel companion. Underneath those bandages was the evidence of five years of suffering, evidence of five years that Geralt didn’t look. It was there, permanently marking Jaskier’s body and mind, so that the Witcher would never forget.

_Where were you?_

Hesitantly, the white-haired man lifted his hand, fingers almost shaking, a heavy feeling beginning to settle in his chest as his fingers inched towards the bard’s limp hand and he took it within his own. Despite the innocence of the act, Geralt felt guilt weigh in his stomach... he didn’t deserve to lay a hand on the fragile bard, he wasn’t even awake and he was just touching him as he pleased, it was wrong, he should stop, he should let go—

Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand. Geralt did not let go.

—-

When the sun rose, Geralt awoke with it, his body sore as he realized he’d been kneeling at Jaskier’s bedside the whole night. When he stood, his joints cracked in resistance, every part of him stiff and numb. As he began to stretch, something soft slid off his shoulders and pooled at his feet—a blanket. The Witcher felt a smile ghost across his face as he glanced at the now-absent sorceress’ chair. He would never admit it to her face, but he appreciated the gesture. He appreciated everything.

When the morning birds began chirping on the windowsill, Jaskier awoke with them, his eyes fluttering open in a glassy haze. A voice above him shouted words he was unable to decipher, the words becoming jumbled and distorted, but he knew it was a big voice. It shook in his chest with each word and he recoiled out of instinct. This couldn’t be good.

“Yennefer!” The booming voice shouted again, “He’s awake!”

Uneven, rushed footsteps, a gentler voice just as distorted, hands ghosting over his skin, over his hair—too much, too much, too much!

Jaskier flinched violently this time, jerking himself to the farthest corner of the bed, trying to curl up as small as he could against the wooden bed frame.

“We won’t hurt you,” the voice became clearer. “Open your eyes for us, would you?”

_She told you to open your eyes. Don’t disobey._

Gray eyes flung open wildly, searching the room as he shook, heart pounding in his ears, fingernails embedded into his arms as he hugged himself. He flinched once more as he felt movement on the bed, a presence growing nearer, too close—yellow eyes, calloused hands, deep mumbling resonating from a strong chest, sweet nothings in his ear. Peace.

His breathing stilled and he gazed upwards to meet Geralt’s eyes, exhaling sharply as he slowly extended his hand towards the Witcher’s sharp jawline. Barely brushing a finger across his rough skin, Jaskier jerked away as if burnt. Confusion flashed through his cloudy eyes as he drank in the sight of the man before him.

“I’m here, Jaskier. It’s me.” Geralt reassured, voice hushed, “This is real. I’m real. Yen is real.”

The mantra seemed to calm the man, once again instilling within him the courage to stretch out his shaking arm. He gently cupped his Witcher’s face, brushing the palm of his hand across his stubbled cheek. Tears pooled in his eyes. He could feel him. It was real. He was safe.

He opened his mouth wide, forming words, but nothing more than sharp breaths exited his throat. As if he’d just remembered something in that moment, Jaskier broke suddenly away from Geralt, reaching his hand out to urgently grasp the wrist of a wide-eyed Yennefer. He gently guided her hand to his throat, squeezing her wrist tight, gray eyes pleading with a pitying purple. The question couldn’t be asked, but the sorceress didn’t need it to be.

“No, Jaskier, I’m sorry.” Yennefer spoke, barely above a whisper, “The spell is permanent. It can’t be undone.”

_Where were you?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I experimented a bit with my writing and formatting styles in this chapter, and I hope you liked it. Also, my first Witcher book (The Last Wish) arrived today, I’m going to read it ASAP and can hopefully add more details and lore into this story. Thanks again!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! First I want to say a HUGE thank you to everyone giving kudos, as well as leaving such kind and thoughtful comments. You guys are making me smile every day and I really need that right now, so thank you.

“No, Jaskier, I’m sorry.” Yennefer spoke, barely above a whisper, “The spell is permanent. It can’t be undone.”

Jaskier couldn’t breathe, and it had very little to do with the inflammation in his ribcage or the damage at his throat. The ex-bard had spent over twenty years as Geralt’s travel companion, and in that time, he was bound to encounter many monsters—and unfortunately got caught up in the path of a few. Yet no whip of a tail, no ripping of a claw, and no old-fashioned punch to the gut could begin to compare to the pain that surged through his body at those words.

He knew it, deep down. He’d accepted it as soon as the spell cast upon him ran its course, he knew it wasn’t like the djinn—it wasn’t a pain bubbling in his throat, redness burning and glaring at his neck, his voice so close yet catching on the wretched pools of blood. No, it was nothing like that. The spell ended, and so did the pain. Then there was nothing.

Yes, he’d known it was permanent. He’d accepted it then. The only difference then, however, was that he didn’t expect to have to _live_ with it. He’d expected to die there, to let all of the pain and the scars rot with his body into the cold concrete. The realization that he now had to continue on, through every agonizing sunrise and sunset until the end of his days, without his voice and his songs—it was too much.

“Jask,” Geralt whispered, hands on either side of the younger man’s face, thumbs brushing gently on his cheeks. “You need to breathe. You’re okay.”

Jaskier frantically shook his head in protest, how could the white-haired man not see he was _not_ okay at all?! How could he not see he had nothing left, his livelihood stolen from him, the one thing he was good at in this godforsaken world, the things he loved... the perfect lyric, a cheering crowd, the expertly-hidden flush on his cheeks when someone called him “the Witcher’s bard.” The only time he and Geralt made any sense together, the only thing Jaskier could provide as the travel companion of a Witcher, was through his music. Now he didn’t even have that, he couldn’t be the Witcher’s bard. He couldn’t be a bard at all.

Jaskier hadn’t realized how hard he’d been sobbing until his chest began to ache, his cries coming out as nothing more than strained breaths, yet Geralt could hear them louder than he’d ever heard him cry before. Jaskier found himself caught in the grasp of two strong arms, holding him tightly, rubbing gentle circles into his back. In any other circumstances, he would’ve flinched away, launching into yet another panic—but he was tired, and the embrace smelled familiar... like charcoal and earth. A distant memory of laying on the dirt beside a campfire, complaining to Geralt that it was unbearably cold despite only the first chill of autumn beginning to set, whining until the Witcher finally sighed and curled up beside the bard, insisting it was just to “warm him up.” The soft smile that Jaskier wore proudly and the twitch of Geralt’s lip that he hid so well, as they began to doze.

Jaskier could breathe again.

“Are you with us, Jaskier?” It was Yennefer this time, her voice and features the softest he’d ever seen them, delicate hand hovering over the fragile man but not daring to touch. Pulling away from the embrace only slightly, Jaskier glanced at her and nodded.

“Good.” Yennefer smiled, forced and obviously so, but a comfort regardless. “We really should get some food in you, and I think you would enjoy a warm bath.”

Jaskier didn’t think he could keep anything down, and the mere thought of solid foods sickened him at the moment. So he nodded, begrudgingly, but began to rub his arm in a scrubbing motion.

“You’d like to bathe first?” Yennefer asked, and Jaskier nodded, grateful that she was able to understand his charades. “All right, I’ll draw it for you.”

Whilst Jaskier heard the sound of water in the room beside him, Geralt began to help him stand, pulling one arm over his shoulder and standing up for the both of them. When he was stable and upright, the older man grabbed a large towel.

“You need to undress, do you need help?”

Jaskier’s cheeks flushed, and he quickly shook his head. Geralt nodded in understanding, handed him the towel, and turned around.

Sighing, Jaskier began to work off the loose, oversized shirt that he knew belonged to Geralt, judging by the way it fell down past his hips on his malnourished form. He began to lift his leg to work the linen pants off, but found himself stumbling backwards, catching himself on the bedpost. Blushing furiously, he stumbled forward, resting his hand and leaning his weight onto Geralt’s shoulder. The Witcher glanced at him briefly, but after confirming Jaskier was able to handle the rest on his own, he returned his eyes forward to a pile of books he was pretending to read the titles of. Jaskier was grateful. Geralt felt a few movements and the younger man pulling on his body a time or two, before releasing him from his grip. Geralt turned after a he took the few moments of silence as indication that Jaskier was finished undressing. He watched as the bard observed his own body, at the twisted painting of bruises and scars, painfully visible with nothing but the loose towel hanging on his thin hips. The Witcher strode forward, slowly, and placed two fingers delicately beneath Jaskier’s chin, lifting gray eyes to meet his own, the sadness pooling within them almost unbearable. Geralt opened his mouth to say something, but the words were lost upon Yennefer’s call that the tub was ready.

One arm wrapped around Geralt‘s shoulder once more, the pair stumbled their way through the hall and to the bathing room.

Geralt rested the man on a stool at the side of the tub. Jaskier glanced at him hesitantly.

“With your injuries, I’d be more comfortable if one of us stayed in here with you. We could help you if you need or simply turn around and keep an ear out, but at least one of us needs to be in the room. Alright?” Yennefer’s explanation was a strange mix of clinical and gentle, but Jaskier quickly nodded nonetheless. “Alright. Which one would you like to stay? Geralt, myself, or the both of us?”

Jaskier weighed his options. He didn’t want to be seen in this state, by either one, but he knew he had no choice in the matter. First he wanted to pick Geralt because he knows him, trusts him, has bathed with him many a time before and if he was lucky, he even got to wash his hair. Then he wanted to pick Yennefer for her feminine hands and soft voice, the opposite of the last five years of hands that have touched him. That’s when his darker thoughts reminded him he didn’t want to be left alone with either, naked and vulnerable.

So he raised two fingers.

“Both?” Yennefer supplied. Jaskier nodded.

“Would you like our help? Or would you like to try on your own?” The sorceress asked, and Jaskier hid his reddened face into his shoulder. He knew he couldn’t lift himself info the tub alone, and his two companions ( _caretakers_ , he thought bitterly) seemed to pick up on that concern through the way he glanced at how high the tub was from where he sat.

“It’s okay to need help, Jaskier.” Yennefer spoke gently, kindly, once more. The tone was starting to unsettle the bard.

“We’ll just help lift you into the tub. We won’t do anything else unless you need us to.” Geralt reassured. “We’ll set you in, turn around, and you can knock on the side of the tub if you need anything.”

It was a decent idea, but the thought of having to take the stupid towel off in front of them was haunting him. There’s nothing surprising beneath there, no gruesome scarring or anything to startle them. In fact, he’s always been quite casual about his body, never ashamed to strip and jump in a lake or sit half-naked next to a tub in his inn room as he dried his hair, fully aware but not caring that Geralt could see him. But now, as he thinks about removing the towel in their presence, he feels exposed. _Vulnerable_.

He didn’t have much of a choice, though. He was the one who asked to bathe first.

Nodding reluctantly at the pair, Jaskier placed his hands on the floor and positioned himself to start standing. Geralt and Yennefer each grabbed one of his arms, turning him to face the tub, as he lifted his pained leg to stick his first foot in the water.

Then he saw his reflection in the rippling water, followed by the sensation of wetness on his leg.

Then, it all went to hell.

Jaskier began thrashing in their grip, kicking his legs wildly, mouth open in silent screams. In the chaos, the man slipped, causing the rest of his body to fall forward into the tub, water splashing his face, tears streaming down his cheeks, head shaking, lips forming desperate pleas of no, stop, please. Hands on his shoulders, drowning him—no, wait. Soft touches, gentle rubbing, calming voices. Confusion, blurry vision, ringing ears... he didn’t understand where he was. But he knew he was drowning, head held beneath water, couldn’t breath—!

“Jaskier, breathe!” Geralt commanded, admittedly roughly, as he held the smaller man’s limbs still so he wouldn’t hurt himself in his thrashing.

“You’re hyperventilating,” The sorceress added, calm voice a stark comparison to the Witcher’s desperation, as she gently brushed the man’s hair out of his face. “It’s hurting your lungs, Jaskier, that’s why you feel like you can’t breathe. But you can, I promise.”

Jaskier shook his head. He absolutely _could not_ breathe! What was he, a bloody mermaid?! Couldn’t they see he was being held beneath the water, rough fingers in his hair, wetness inhaled through his lungs, oh God—!

“Geralt,” Yennefer said urgently, voice cracking for the first time, catching the Witcher’s attention. “I don’t think he can breathe. Rather, he doesn’t believe he can breathe. He’s going to suffocate himself—“

Yennefer didn’t have to finish her sentence.

“Axii,” Geralt whispered, running his fingers through the bard‘s hair. “Breathe. Calm down.”

Jaskier instantly stilled, inhaling deeply, his body feeling heavy as it melted into the walls of the tub.

“Are you with us?” Geralt asked, and Jaskier blinked, his eyes hazy, despite him no longer being under Axii’s influence. He nodded, barely, just enough to let the Witcher know he was conscious and aware.

“You’re okay, you just got a bit scared there.” Yennefer supplied gently, “You’re safe with us. You’re in my cottage, in the bath.”

No response from the man, his gaze fading, and his two companions exchanged concerned glances.

None of them had expected such a reaction, even Jaskier himself, but despite that, Yennefer felt like a fool for not foreseeing it sooner. She had read him, even chastised Geralt for it—“ _he mouthed your name from the corner of his cell, shivering and wet after they held his head underwater until he couldn’t breathe, over and over for hours on end_ ”—yet didn’t stop to consider the consequences of that experience on his mind. He thought he was back there, being drowned by his captors, and he truly could not breathe. She should have had the sense to predict that and take precautions. Guilt pooled in her stomach.

“Jaskier, can we help you?” Geralt broke the silence, when he noticed the man made no effort to move, appearing to start to doze as lidded eyes grew heavy.

There was no response from the smaller man, his thoughts too far gone, his body weak and exhausted. So the Witcher nodded at Yennefer in permission. They didn’t have much of a choice at that point.

With that, Yennefer started to rub lavender soap on a washcloth, gently stroking it along Jaskier’s arms, holding his hand as he had grown too weary to keep his arm up over the edge of the tub, removing layers of blood and dirt and turning the water a grimy color that made Yennefer wince.

Geralt began to wash mousy brown hair, rubbing gentle circles into his scalp, as the bard had done for him so many times before. With a shaky sigh, Jaskier’s eyes rolled into the back of his head, finally giving into the darkness that lulled him unconscious.

When they finished, they wrapped the bard in towels and more of Geralt’s loose clothing, and laid him back in bed. He awoke once more, just moments after, only to lean over the side of the bed and wretch nothing but acid from his empty stomach as the Witcher rubbed his back and the Sorceress held his hair out of his face.

Jaskier did not eat that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Sorry it was such a short chapter, but I’ll make it up to you with the next one. It should be nice and long and a bit more Yennefer-centric. Thank you again and I’ll see you in the next chapter!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Thank you all so much for your continued kind comments and kudos, they really do mean a lot to me. I also want to thank you all for your patience on this chapter—this chapter was a huge challenge for me to write, and it’s not what I wanted it to be, but I hope you still enjoy it. I’m struggling to grasp Yennefer’s characterization, so please forgive me if she’s OOC in this one. Please enjoy!

The tension that filled Yennefer’s living room was so dense it could’ve been sliced with one of Geralt’s silver swords, as the Witcher laid in front the crackling fireplace and the Sorceress paced steadily behind her loveseat.

Jaskier had fallen into a deep sleep once more, leaving the two alone. Alone with each other and their thoughts.

The sorceress never liked the damn bard. He was loud, cocky, obnoxious, flamboyant—and so obviously, painfully in love with the man that Yennefer once held in her arms. It wasn’t jealousy, of course, she threw that thought out as soon as it appeared. He was genuinely that despicable, that easy to hate, in his silky blue doublet with his voice like a songbird, the way he filled the silence with ease, the way that Geralt’s eyes drifted to him so softly, lingering on him for too long.

No, she was not jealous.

But over these last five years of contemplation, she began to miss the younger man. She missed the way he was able to fill a silence, the way his words graced over any situation, the way he was able to distract her from her own thoughts or smooth over tense situations between herself and the Witcher. He spoke all the words Geralt could not, felt all of the things Geralt refused to express, and Yennefer didn’t know how she didn’t notice it earlier—Jaskier was as much a part of Geralt as a lute was a part of a bard, as a sword was a part of a Witcher.

Yes, she was jealous.

And she never felt the sting of regret as much as she had now, forced to face an emotionally constipated Witcher (when she herself was hardly any more emotionally advanced, although she wouldn’t admit it out loud), alone and without the safety net of the bard’s smooth words and soft tone.

“Geralt, I...” Yennefer’s violet eyes trailed warily towards Geralt, “I want to apologize.”

She had the man’s full attention now as he sat up, still in a slouch with legs crossed and arms resting lazily on his knees, but he was listening.

“What for?” Geralt asked gruffly, his tone hesitant.

“Do you remember the night I cured Jaskier after he was attacked by the djinn?”

Geralt winced. _I just want some damn peace!_

“Like it was yesterday.”

“You had told me that you’d said some things to him, and that you didn’t want them to be the last thing he remembers.”

The white-haired man nodded, his body tensing at the recollection of the event.

“When we parted on the mountain, those words of yours from that night stuck with me. You had said some cruel things up there, Geralt... but I was hardly any better.”

The Witcher looked up, brow furrowed, and Yennefer was sure he was ready to protest and take the brunt of the blame. _Typical_. She cut him off before he could even open his mouth.

“I was afraid one of us would die. If we’re honest, neither of us live very peaceful lives. I thought about it frequently. What if that is our last memory of each other?”

“I’m not quite seeing the point of your apology yet, Yen.”

The sorceress sighed, nodding in awareness of her nonsensical rambling.

“I spent five years regretting what I said to you up on that mountain, even if it felt justified at the time. I promised myself that when I saw you again, I would take it all back and give us something good to hang onto.” Yennefer ran a hand through her hair, “Yet, when you knocked on my door the other night, all of the peace I’d made, and the resolution I’d come to just—flew out the window.”

The raven-haired woman gathered her skirt and kneeled beside the man on the floor, the warmth of the close fire nowhere near as intense as the warmth of the golden eyes staring into her own glassy amethyst.

“I said terrible things to you that night, Geralt. Cruel things. And I’m sorry.”

“You were right.” Geralt grunted, and Yennefer cocked an eyebrow. “About the things you said. All of it.”

The sorceress felt her heart weigh down into her stomach.

“No, Geralt. I wasn’t right. I was being selfish, I... I just wanted somebody to blame. For everything.” She turned her gaze, suddenly unable to meet the Witcher’s eyes. “I didn’t even stop to consider how you might feel.”

“Witchers don’t feel.” Geralt stated simply.

“That’s bloody _bullshit_ and you know it.” The woman growled, “You did what you thought was best for Jaskier. You were heartbroken, and the guilt practically radiates off you. I knew this, yet I hurt you more. I hurt you, Geralt, and that’s not okay.”

Geralt was the one to turn his head now, seeming to consider her words before nodding slightly and letting out a hum. Once she sensed he wouldn’t argue his point, she let her shoulders sag, relaxing into her spot on the wooden floor.

“Geralt, I... still care about you.”

The Witcher’s head snapped back to face her.

“Yennefer—“

“And I always will. You can’t stop that, Geralt. I will always love you, but... that love has changed, in these past five years. I love you, Geralt, but I don’t want you to warm my bed or take my heart.” Yennefer felt the ghost of a smile creep across her face, “I want you to be safe. I want you to stay close. I want you to be happy. Like a...”

“Like a friend?” Geralt supplied.

“Like a friend.” Yennefer agreed.

“I’d... like that.” The Witcher coughed, “I care about you, too. Like a friend.”

Before she even thought about her actions, the sorceress’ body seeming to move of its own accord, she grasped the Witcher’s shoulders gently in her slender hands, pulling his body towards her. She laid her chin against his tense shoulder, gentle resting her hands along his back. Geralt relaxed into the embrace, wrapping a strong arm loosely around her back while the other gently rested on her head.

“I forgive you, Geralt.”

“I forgive you, too.”

Yennefer didn’t know how long they stayed that way, wrapped up in the warmth of the fire and each other’s arms. She did know the beginning of morning light began to peek through her window, her eyes beginning to drift closed, as she stroked long white hair in her fingers until her hand stilled and slowly fell to the floor.

—-

When Yennefer awoke, the sun had fully risen and its rays warmed her skin as it trickled through the living room window. She stretched her aching body, shifting around the smooth material on which she lay—realizing she was no longer on the floor in front of the fire, but rather on the loveseat with a blanket draped loosely over her. A gentle smile ghosted across her lips as she held the warm blanket tighter, reminding herself she must get up as much as she dreads it, and... something smells nice. Gently lifting the blanket off of her lap, the sorceress rose and strode towards the source of the aroma.

She almost gasped when she saw Geralt, in her kitchen, _cooking_.

“Well, well.” The sorceress’ silky voice caught the focused Witcher’s attention as she crossed her arms and leaned against the doorframe. “I didn’t realize they had cooking classes at Kaer Morhen.”

“Jaskier taught me a trick or two.” Geralt remained focused on the pan in front of him, avoiding the sorceress’ gaze. “He claimed his palate is too refined for him to settle for my lackluster cuisine.”

“And by ‘cuisine’ you mean wild rabbits you skewered over a campfire.”

“Hm.”

Round slices of meat lay sizzling over the fire, and two plates already loaded with bread and fruit lay to the side, and Yennefer realized she hadn’t been this excited for a meal in a long while. The meals she remembered to eat, that is. Above the fire, a pot boiled, and the sorceress began to lean in to take a closer look.

“It’s broth,” Geralt answered the unasked question, “something light and easy for Jaskier to eat, when he wakes.”

“That’s very considerate of you, Geralt.”

The Witcher only shrugged in response.

Once the meat had cooked, the two carried their plates into the guest bedroom, sitting themselves on the floor in wait of Jaskier’s awakening. They ate in silence, for a moment, before the white-haired man surprisingly broke the silence.

“Yen, you said you read him.”

The sorceress paled.

“Yes.” She said plainly.

“What did you see?”

“Geralt, maybe it’s better he tells you on his own terms.”

“He can’t _tell_ me anything.”

Yennefer averted her gaze.

“I don’t want you to be distressed, and I don’t want to tell you anything he might not want you to know.”

“You saw it, and Jaskier _lived_ it. I think my distress is the least of our concerns. I want to be able to help him, but to do that I need to know what he went through. I can’t just keep trudging through blindly and have another incident like the bath.”

The raven-haired woman swallowed thickly, but her gaze steeled, her jaw set firmly.

“If there’s a situation—like the bath—that I feel might cause a reaction, I will tell you details as it comes. Beyond that, the details are between you two. I already invaded his privacy by entering his mind in the first place, I’ll be damned if I disrespect that again.”

“But you didn’t warn me about the bath.” Geralt growled.

“I was foolish, I rushed in and hadn’t analyzed the consequences. I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“...Fine.

The sorceress noticed the slight tremble in her hands. Why was this so difficult to talk about? Geralt was right, Jaskier lived it. She truly had no right feeling such anguish over simply relaying the information. Still, she had to choke the words past her tight throat.

“I believe I mentioned it before, albeit not kindly. His captors used water torture. They held his head underwater in a tub, until he almost passed out, then pulled him back up for air and repeated until they grew tired. One time, he... stopped breathing entirely. He’d drowned. They resuscitated him.”

The Witcher tried to ignore the rising bile in his throat.

“Geralt, you know I don’t say this lightly, but... I’m frightened. I’ve seen reactions to trauma before, but the extent of his response was more intense than I’ve ever experienced.” Yennefer cleared her throat, praying it covered the quiver in her voice. “I believe that, in the tub yesterday, his brain truly convinced him that his head was submerged and he was unable to breathe. If you hadn’t been fast on your feet with Axii, I think he...”

“Would’ve suffocated himself.” The Witcher supplied.

“Yes. I don’t think he’s at all able to distinguish reality from his flashbacks. Even us being there and talking him through it wasn’t grounding him.”

“So what do we do?”

“I will be honest, this isn’t my area of expertise. But I’ll read up on it, ask some people. We can find some sort of solution, some sort of treatment, I’m sure of it.”

Geralt nodded solemnly, a heavy dread weighing in his stomach at the slight quiver in the usually confident sorceress’ words.

“ _Can_ it be fixed?” The question was asked barely above a whisper, but it filled the room, pounding in Yennefer’s ears.

Physical wounds she could bandage, apply herbs, provide a potion. The wounds bled and the victims screamed, but it did not faze her.

But the gentle bard had been hurt so much deeper than a superficial wound, five goddamned years of being a prisoner in his own head, cruel captors playing with his mind for sport. His heart bleeds and his mouth hangs open in silent screams, but she cannot help him.

“I don’t know.” She stated simply. Honestly.

Geralt stood up, quickly, taking both of their half-finished plates (they both know they can’t keep down another bite) in hand before striding out of the room, boots heavy on the floor, and as Yennefer sits frozen on the hardwood, she pretends she doesn’t hear the plates being shattered upon her kitchen floor and the broken, enraged scream that follows it.

—-

Jaskier wakes up, tired and confused, and Geralt leaves to fetch some broth. He walks around the two shattered plates on the floor, and pretends they’re not there.

Geralt is begging the struggling man to open his mouth, a lukewarm cup of broth in hand, as Jaskier curls deeper in on himself.

“Jaskier, you need to eat or you’re going to die. Open your damn mouth.”

_Open your pretty mouth for us, won’t you? Certainly it’s not just skilled in song. Oh, the songs we could make you sing, little bird..._

Jaskier flinched violently, shoving Geralt’s arm away and splashing the broth all over his own chest and legs.

Yennefer rushes out to the kitchen to retrieve a towel. She walks around the two shattered plates on the floor, and pretends they’re not there.

The sorceress wipes down the bard’s shaking chest with the soft towel, whispering reassurance that he is safe, he’s not there anymore, there’s nobody here to hurt him.

Geralt goes to fill another cup with soup, listening to the calming whispers from the room next door, knowing it’s relaxing the bard, and he wonders why those reassuring words can’t be _his_. Why he messes everything up. He walks around the two shattered plates on the floor, and pretends they’re not there.

When the Witcher returns, the bard is changed into dry clothes, shaking a lot less and his gray eyes more aware. He swallows his bitterness towards himself and asks the bard if he would like to try the broth again. Jaskier nods tentatively.

Yennefer takes the soiled shirt to the kitchen, leaving the two with some space, wasting no time in washing the garment in the sink. It’s the softest and most comfortable shirt that she has for Jaskier, and she wants him to be able to have that. She walks around the two shattered plates on the floor, and pretends they’re not there.

For if one of them acknowledges the broken pieces of ceramic littering her smooth tile floor, they’re acknowledging so much more. They’re acknowledging the reason they lay in pieces upon the floor, the sharp edges and shattered hopes, the finality of brokenness.

The sorceress lets out a shaky sigh as she scoops the broken ceramic, one piece at a time. Each piece weighs heavily in her tired hands as she lays them inside a cloth-lined basket. She can’t bring herself to toss it away, not right now. Not when the wounds the sharp ceramic sliced into her hands are fresh, not when the acceptance of loss and sting of regret weighs heavy in her heart. Not when each one of those broken pieces holds a part of their pain in its cracks.

She places the basket behind a bookshelf and pretends it’s not there.

—-

Jaskier stared dumbly at the notebook and wooden pencil the sorceress had tossed in his lap just moments ago. After they managed to get three cups of broth into the malnourished man, his skin already gained more color, his eyes brighter.

“Don’t look so shocked,” Yennefer drawled. “I do nice things sometimes. This’ll help you communicate, write notes, write songs... whatever you wish.”

Hands shaking, the bard grasped the pencil, etching in a few sloppy words (nowhere in comparison to his usual flourish—shaky print rather than elegant cursive, his lines filled with jagged edges instead of swoops and swirls) before lifting it for Yennefer to see.

**Thank you**

Yennefer held back her smile. With the bard now being so... lucid, she found it hard to drop her mask of bitterness despite her knowing she no longer harbors such feelings towards the man. It just felt normal. And she hated that.

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not completely heartless.” The raven-haired woman shrugged.

_I’m not completely heartless._

_Right?_

Jaskier turned his attentions to his Witcher now, who sat at his bedside with one hand on the bard’s knee.

More shaky words filled the page, before showing it hesitantly to Geralt.

**You’re alive**

Yellow eyes widened slightly before relaxing once more.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”

Sheepish eyes darted back down to the paper, the tremble in his hands somehow worsening.

**They told me you were dead**

The Witcher felt his heart fall into his stomach.

“They told you that? So you didn’t even... you didn’t even know there was anybody out there to save you.”

Jaskier shook his head, refusing to look Geralt in the eye.The weight in Geralt’s chest grew heavier with guilt. Jaskier wiping away a tear while pretending to just fix his hair wasn’t subtle. Yennefer left the room. The Witcher burst.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry it took me so long to get to you, so long to look for you—I thought... I thought you were happy, somewhere.” Geralt ran a hand through his long hair. “If I had just _known_ you were in danger...”

As the Witcher trailed off his sentence, he watched something looming behind the bard’s eyes. Hurt. He’d upset him. Geralt quickly opened his mouth to remedy whatever he’d said wrong, but Jaskier cut him off with the scratch of graphite on parchment.

**You really didn’t know?**

“No.”

The bard let out a strange noise, air from his throat and a squeak from his nose, the only sound he still could make, and it was a terrible, pained thing that Geralt prayed to any and every god out there that he’d never have to hear it again.

**You didn’t look for me**

“Jask,” Geralt rubbed soothing circles on the brown-haired man’s thigh. “I did look for you. You know I did. You’re safe, you’re here, I would never leave you there.”

Jaskier added scribbled words to the end of his last sentence.

**You didn’t look for me after the mountain. They left you clues, left you hints, they wanted you to come, that’s why they wanted me, and all you had to do was _look!_**

The bard flinched away from the Witcher’s comforting touch, violently turning to his side and curling tightly into a ball, hands grasping desperately at his hair.

_Where were you?_

_All you had to do was look!_

“Jask, I—“

Jaskier lifted a shaky hand, and waved it dismissively. He didn’t want him here.

Geralt stormed out of the bedroom door, catching the sorceress by surprise as she heated water for tea.

“Where do you think you’re going?” She demanded once the Witcher reached the front door.

“Out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There she is! Thank you all so much again, I hope you enjoyed. Stay safe, and I’ll see you in the next one!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience on this chapter! I took a bit of a mental health break because my brain was too overwhelmed to write much. Hopefully I’ll be back more consistently now! As always, thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos, you’re keeping me going! Please enjoy!

Yennefer was unsurprised to find the Witcher in the stables, sitting against Roach and brushing gentle strokes through her mane.

The sorceress, at first, had intended to be gentle with the Witcher. But an anger rose up within her, heat brushing her cheeks and neck, when she saw him just sitting there.

“You want to tell me why you left a hyperventilating bard unattended in my guest bedroom?” She growled, trying to contain herself. _Don’t hurt him again_.

“Hyperventilating?”

“Yes, Geralt, in absolute hysterics. I just got him calmed.”

The Witcher grimaced, face paling.

“I didn’t...” Geralt trailed off, “I’ve fucked up.”

“Yes.” Yennefer responded simply.

Silence grew thicker between the two as the Witcher hid his face in his palms and his ever-loyal mare laid her head in his lap.

“You can’t change the past, Geralt.” The sorceress speaks up, gentler now. “But you need to fix the present. Make it right.”

The Witcher stood, suddenly, Roach rising with him on instinct.

“Yes,” He agreed, mounting the mare. “I’ll be back.”

“Geralt, where the _hell_ are you going?”

“I’m going to make things right.”

“Jaskier needs you here, this is no time to be running off!”

“He doesn’t want me here, you know that. I’ll be back before nightfall, I promise.”

Without leaving room for argument, Roach began to gallop down the hill and away from the cottage. Yennefer pinched the bridge of her nose and clenched her jaw, trying to calm herself. These boys were going to be the death of her.

She returned to the spare bedroom, to the pale and drowsy Jaskier, and sat in the chair beside the bed. Gray eyes glanced at her warily.

“I sent him to run some errands for us,” She lied easily in response to the unasked question, “I think it’d be better to give you two some space.”

The bard nodded in hesitant agreement, something pained in his face as his hand clenched the cloth over his stomach.

“Jaskier, I understand you feel abandoned. I’m not going to try to create excuses for Geralt when I don’t even know the full story myself. But...” The sorceress leaned in to lock eyes with the bard, trying to keep his drifting attention, the man clearly lost in thought. “Can you promise me that you’ll listen to him? If, after he talks to you, you don’t like his answer... then I understand. But please don’t shut him out completely, at least not until you hear him out.”

Jaskier played with the linen of his shirt for a moment, refusing to meet the woman’s gaze. Then, he nodded, just slight enough that Yennefer almost missed it.

“Thank you.” She smiled gently, before leaning back in her chair and grabbing a book from the bedside table.

As she sifted through the pages, she took subtle glances towards the bard. As time passed, he still sat upright, shoulders tense, eyes on his hands as his wiry fingers still tugged and rubbed at the fabric of his shirt. Sighing, Yennefer closed her book.

“What’s bothering you?” She asked, and Jaskier jumped as he was startled out of his thoughts, holding his arms over his head as if to defend from an attack. The sorceress silently cursed herself.

The bard quickly snapped out of it, however, and sheepishly began to write in his journal, clearly struggling to find words as he scribbled and crossed out as he went. Yennefer remained patient, allowing him to finish rather than peering over his shoulder. He sighed, seeming to settle on a sentence, short and not so sweet.

**Why are you being nice to me?**

The sorceress felt her heart drop to her stomach, and the confusion on the bard’s face sickened her.

Seeing he struck a nerve, Jaskier quickly scratched out the words on the page, panic all but radiating off of him. _I won’t hurt you,_ she wanted to say. She couldn’t say it, she’d hurt him so many times before, how could she make such claims now? He scratched new words into the parchment, sloppier and more rushed than the last.

**I’m sorry I’m not saying you’re not a nice person I just thought you didn’t like me**

“Don’t apologize,” she blurted out, voice bleak. “You have every right to feel that way.”

She cleared her throat, leaning back into her chair.

“I wasn’t a good person to you, Jaskier. To anyone, really. That’s not my... area of expertise.” She continued, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t _like_ you. I don’t want to hurt you, or to see harm come to you. I regret that I’ve made you feel unwelcome in my presence, then and now.”

The bard nodded, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He offered her an attempt at his signature warm grin, but what showed through was a pain-laced smile that didn’t quite reach his hollow eyes. Yennefer tried to reciprocate the gesture. She couldn’t.

She stood to leave, offering some excuse about preparing herbs, but she was taken aback when she felt a feeble hand gripping at her wrist. She turned around to face the man, and he began to write.

**One more thing please, before you go**

She nodded, sitting on the edge of the bed this time. Regretting it when Jaskier winced. Nevertheless, he continued with his question.

**How long was I with them? I know it was a long time but I lost track eventually**

“Five years,” she sighed, grief heavy in her tone. “It’s been nearly five winters, since the mountain.”

The journal slipped out of the bard’s hand, hitting the sheets with a gentle thud. His breath hitched, caught in his throat, his hands reaching up to grip at his overgrown hair. His chest was suspended on an exhale, breath not entering his lungs, and Yennefer panicked at the reminder of the bath incident. Could he breathe? That damned Witcher, the one time she needed him, he was off on some escapade. What could she do? A calming potion, she certainly has one brewed— _inhale_. Relief. Her shoulders slump, but Jaskier’s remain taut, hands pulling at tufts of hair. She began to reach out in comfort, but her hand stopped short of the man’s thin shoulder, because she feared that if she touched him, he’d finally shatter.

“Are you alright?” She offered instead.

The bard nodded. Unconvincing.

“Can you write to me, tell me what you’re thinking?” The sorceress mustered the gentlest tone she could and prayed it didn’t sound too forced.

Jaskier shook his head, and raised his shaking hands as proof that he, quite literally, could not at the moment.

“May I... read your mind? Just think what you want to say to me, I won’t delve any deeper than that.”

He didn’t respond, but after several moments, she took his lack of resistance as permission to enter.

His thoughts were running wild, panicked, words overlapping each other in varying levels of volume. It was chaotic. She tried to decipher which ones she was supposed to hear and which ones were simply intruding within his fragile mind—if life could give me one blessing, it would be to take you off my hands. Off my hands. Five years. Nuisance. Unwanted. Worthless. Broken. Pitiful. It’s just pity she feels, that’s all, you know how she hates you. Everyone does, after awhile. Five years. He doesn’t want you here, you damned fool, he finally got rid of you for five years and here you are, in the way again. You always are. And everybody leaves, in the end. Five years.

Suddenly, one sentence stood out above the rest—loud enough it sounded almost as if he were truly speaking, right into her ear.

_I’m sorry. Please leave._

And so, she left.

The sorceress found herself in the living room, standing in front of the small mirror on the wall, taking in the reflection before her.

_Please leave._

She had left.

_Why are you being nice to me? It’s just pity she feels, that’s all, you know how she hates you._

She had left.

_Everybody leaves, in the end._

She had left.

She wondered how long it’s been since she’d last looked at herself in the mirror and seen a monster.

—-

The door to the cottage swung open, left unlocked for the Witcher’s return. He spared a quick glance at the sorceress sitting at the kitchen table, staring intensely at the tea before her, eyes tired and vacant. He considered the fact that the mug had no steam rising from it, and wondered how long she’d sat there.

“I’m back,” he began, cautiously.

Violet eyes drifted upwards, barely regarding Geralt’s presence or the packages held at his side. The dark circles under her eyes became ever more apparent in the warm candlelight.

“I’m going to bed, then.” She stood, “You can watch him tonight, I trust. Wake me if he needs anything.”

Yennefer’s long black skirt swayed lazily as she walked towards her bedroom door, feigning her usual confident stride, but the Witcher did not miss the way her steps dragged.

“It’s not even nightfall yet. Are you feeling alright?”

The sorceress halted in her doorway, her head turning back but not fully facing the white-haired man.

“Talk to him. Make things right.”

Her door shut with a gentle thud, and Geralt’s shoulders sagged. He would ask the sorceress about what had occurred in the morning, but for tonight, he had a larger issue at hand.

He knocked gently on the guest room door, slowly creaking it open. Jaskier sat upright against the headboard, vacant eyes snapping toward the door at its movement. Geralt couldn’t help but think he looked like a frightened animal, eyes wide and shoulders shaking, his brain trying to decide whether he was staring at a predator or a friend.

“May I come in?” Geralt offered as gently as his gruff voice could manage.

The bard nodded hesitantly.

Slowly, the Witcher made his way over to the bed, pulling the chair beside it closer to the edge before sitting in it. He laid the parcels he was carrying on his lap. Jaskier wasn’t looking him in the eye, instead staring distantly towards his knees, fingers once again fiddling with his oversized shirt.

“I got you clothes,” The white-haired man blurted out, lifting the softer of the two packages. He undid the twine and paper wrapped around the clothing, and laid the open stack in Jaskier’s lap. “Mine are so big on you. I know I don’t understand fashion so I just grabbed stuff that I thought looked and felt like you.”

Jaskier stared at the items before him, running his fingers over the soft fabrics. The items were made of rich blue and green silk, gentle embroidery lining the sleeves and collars. It wasn’t his performance wear by any means—instead of fancy doublets, the Witcher had chosen practical tunics and breeches—but it was him. It was normal. And normal is all he’s wanted for a long, long time.

Before the bard could even reach for his notebook to thank the man, Geralt set the other package in his lap. This one was a box, definitely too heavy to be clothing.

“This is for you, too. I hope it’s okay.” The Witcher was the one averting his gaze now.

Taken aback by the white-haired man’s apparent sheepishness, Jaskier began to lift the box’s lid with his shaky fingers.

Inside laid an instrument of brilliant walnut wood, delicate flowers painted in gold along the curves and the neck, beneath the shining strings. A lute.

“I know it’s... not the same, without your voice. But I don’t want you to lose your music. Your talent is still there, even if you can’t use all of your instruments.”

Jaskier couldn’t help the tears that began to drip onto the blanket below him. Wiping his face on his sleeve, he reached for his notebook to write something, anything he could to even begin to express his gratitude towards the Witcher. A rough hand grabbed his smaller one, instead.

“You don’t have to say anything. It’s me who needs to speak, who owes you that much.” Running his fingers over the bard’s bony hand, Geralt took a deep breath. “I let you down. What I said to you on the mountain was me taking my own frustration with myself out on you. I had hurt you. I didn’t look for you, because I was afraid that I’d hurt you again, and that you would still feel obligated to stay and I would trap you in a situation where you were miserable.”

Geralt swiftly released the bard’s hand, as if he were burnt. As if he’d not realized he’d been holding it the whole time. Jaskier felt cold, the lack of the Witcher’s hand in his own left a sense of loneliness that he hadn’t noticed until that moment, and he desperately wanted it back. Geralt swallowed, and continued.

“I thought I was doing what was best for you, but I know now it was just what was easiest for me. It was the easiest way to push you away. I was told by a traveler, shortly after the mountain, that you had moved back home and married a Countess. I clung to that because I wanted to believe you were happy and safe. You’re right, Jaskier, I didn’t look for you. I didn’t catch onto any clues or trails, because I’d accepted that lone answer I was given. I wanted to believe you were happier without me. And I will regret that until the day I die.”

The Witcher knew he was never good with words. A few grunts and nods made up most of his vocabulary, and he was sure the speech he just recited to the bard was more words than he’d spoken this year. He started at Jaskier, tentatively awaiting a reaction, hoping he chose the right words for a man who uses so few, hoping that Jaskier picked up on the genuine remorse within them.

The next thing he knew, frail arms were wrapped around his neck, pulling his upper body towards the mattress. Geralt reciprocated the embrace, gently wrapping his arms around the bard’s back, scared he’d break if he squeezed him too tightly.

“I won’t ask you to forgive me, or even trust me again.” Geralt whispered into brown hair, “But I’d like it if you’d let me stay here with you. Until you’re better.”

Jaskier pulled away and wiped his red eyes on his sleeve, reaching for his journal. Geralt waited patiently as the bard penned something out, clearly trying to keep the letters neat despite the now-constant tremor in his hands.

**I don’t forgive you yet. Or trust you again, yet. But I would like you to stay with me... even after I’m better.**

“I’d like that.” Geralt hummed, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He relaxed back into the chair, watching as the bard penned another message, this time his cheeks flushed a bright pink.

**Can you stay in here tonight? I don’t want to be alone**

“Hm.” The Witcher nodded, noticing the relief in Jaskier’s posture at the confirmation.

Wordlessly, Geralt fetched his bedroll and laid it out at the side of Jaskier’s bed while the bard blew out the candle that was illuminating the room. The Witcher laid with his eyes closed, his body sunken into his bedding, but he remained awake as he listened to hesitant fingers begin to strum slow and shaking chords. The sound didn’t have Jaskier’s old skill or confidence, but it was still Jaskier’s.

Geralt didn’t let himself sink into his unconscious until the strumming stopped and the gentle thumping implied the bard had fallen asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I got a comment on a FF.net fic I last updated in 2015 asking when the next chapter will be up, so that’s interesting. Anyway, thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed, and I’ll try to be back with the next one soon!


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